The Gloaming
by callandallas
Summary: Judson, a young literature student, gets a summer job at a local resort, only to be caught up in a world of strange fantasy creatures, ancient traditions, and a mysterious boy, who threatens to change Judson's life forever. Based on a mixture of Native American folklore and the Twilight universe.
1. Prologue

A/N:

(C. P. Jameson)

Welcome to my story. _The Gloaming_ takes place in the Twilight universe, but I have altered some things and taken some artistic liberties to a few aspects of the actually fantasy world, created some new creatures, and chosen a new location besides the one we all know and love (Forks, Washington).

I would love some criticism, hopefully constructive, but I will take what I can get.

Thank you in advance for reading.

Prologue:

 _He's_ here.

I don't move; I can't.

My hands rest against the tree I'm hidden behind. I feel the bark crumbling under my touch. My fingers feel frozen. Everything feels frozen. Maybe it's the imperishable chill in the air. Maybe it's the sound of his breathing. _In, out, in, out._ I can't describe that sound. It's crackly, dark, deathly, utterly paralyzing. And it's right behind me.

It's dark out. The moon has to be out, but it's hidden behind the trees. Little rays of silver light peek through the branches above me. But I can't see. My smoky breath blurs my vision. Now would be the perfect time for him to pounce, to end this sick game of hide-and-seek. I feel the beginnings of tears prickling behind my eyes.

In the back of my mind, I can hear the things people said to me, the warnings they'd given weeks ago. If I only listened to them. But I was weak, and still am. I had to see it for myself. I had to see _him_ for myself. And I did. Oh, god, I did.

I can still remember the good—the way he'd put his hands on mine, the way those eyes had looked at me, as if, even just for a little while, everything was going to be okay.

Now I'm hiding behind a tree, icy fear pumping through my veins. Now his hands are cold, bloodless, void of any remnants of humanity. Now his eyes are the color of blood, glowing like hot coals, wild, savage. I feel tears drip down my face, hot, desperate.

I want to scream, to feel my voice leave my body. I want to get up and run. I want to make sure he's safe, to feel his lips against my hands, to make sure he was warm. I want so many things.

That's when I feel a hand grasp my shoulder. Even though I shouldn't, I look down. It's his hand, but it's different. The skin, there's something about it. It's almost… transparent. I can see the bones of his fingers, the empty veins, the colorless muscle. It's horrific. A scream dies in my mouth.

I don't move; I can't.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One:

My aunt's house isn't empty. This isn't news, though. This house is never empty, and it hasn't been for years. Ever since she started her " _Mia's_ _Bed n' Breakfast on the Lake,"_ there never seems to be a night when Aunt Mia isn't entertaining some hippie couple who can't afford to stay at the _Hutchinson's Resort_ down the road. Sometimes, she doesn't even make them pay. _Wonderful business strategy, Mia._

It's not like she runs a five-star motel or anything like that. We have possible termites and definite mice instead of valet parking. Squeaky floorboards instead of elevators. And a sink full of dirty dishes instead of a pool. It's a wonder she even gets people inside the doors.

But she does, plenty of them, and I've been responsible for the " _Breakfast_ " part of the whole " _Bed and_ _Breakfast_ " thing for the last few years since I've moved in. I keep it simple—bacon and eggs (both warmed up in the microwave) for the meat-eaters, and just eggs for vegetarians. Sorry, I don't do vegans, but there is some mint growing in the backyard, if you want to pick it yourself and put it in some hot water. You provide the hot water, though. Oh, and that stuff growing out there might not even be mint. The last vegan said it was something like poison oak, but that's still up for debate.

Aunt Mia really should hire a cook, or at least, someone who's not me.

And I should really get a job.

"You know," Mia says as we're hanging a pile of bedsheets on a clothesline in the front yard. It's windy out, and I'm struggling to keep the sheet from engulfing me completely. I tend to struggle with common tasks. It's a thing. "I heard _Hutchinson's_ was looking for a new waiter for their summer season."

 _Hutchinson's_ is the nicest resort on Lake Mary. Technically, _Mia's_ is its only competition, but we don't pose much of a threat. We don't pose a threat at all, actually. Equipped with six wooden cabins, a gorgeous sugar-sand beach, a water trampoline, and an appropriately staffed restaurant, _Hutchinson's_ is constantly booming with business, from tourists to locals searching for some kind of vacation. Yeah, it's pretty nice. It's right down the road, too. Sometimes I sneak away from _Mia's_ , jog over to the _Hutchinson's_ restaurant, and order a bowl of their famous ice cream.

Did I mention that the daughter of the owner, Charlotte Hutchinson, is my best friend? Well, she is.

"They're hiring?" I ask, finally clamping a clothespin on the damned sheet that I've been getting much too physical with. "Well, they'll need it. Charlotte's dad thinks it's going to be the busiest summer in years. With the festival, all the baseball games, the-"

"I was thinking you could apply." Mia stops me from grabbing another bedsheet.

"Me?" That catches me off guard for some reason. But it makes sense. Maybe I could work at _Hutchinson's_ , make a few good tips, and finally start paying off some of my student loans. God knows I need to start considering that mess. Plus, working with Charlotte wouldn't be a nightmare. "Don't you need me here?"

"You and I both know the answer to that," Mia muses. She handled the business before I moved here, and she could probably handle it if I leave.

"Maybe I will," I pick up a sheet and begin struggling for a second time today.

Let me explain a little bit.

My name is Judson, I am twenty years old, and I have probably the most boring life imaginable.

I moved in with my aunt about two and a half years ago. We live just outside Brindley, Minnesota, which has a population of less than a thousand, so I don't know if it counts as a town. We're located on the shore of the lake, in a little white cottage that's been incredibly damaged by age and weather. I am a literature student at Lake Mary University, which is located about fifteen minutes north of Brindley, in a Royalton. My graduation date is getting closer and closer with every passing hour, and I can almost taste that diploma. It tastes like salty tears and undrunk liquor. Mostly undrunk, but that's a different story altogether.

Speaking of different stories, I haven't talked to my parents in exactly two and a half years. The reasons for their absence have become blurred in my mind, not because I don't remember, but because I don't even know if set reasons exist.

Like I said, that's a different story.

"So, are you tryna get a job, Jud?" Charlotte laughs, brushing a lock of her black hair out of her face. "Don't you suck at working?"

It's my turn to laugh. "Shut up! I'm a special kind of worker. That's what Mia says at least." We're sitting at a table at the bar in _Hutchinson's_ restaurant, doing what we always seem to be doing—eating cheese curds, drinking cherry Cokes, and gossiping about kids from town. Only now has she brought up the prospect of employment. "Wait," I suddenly say. "Is this my interview?"

"Well, it could be. Dad says I get to pick the newest employee. Says it'll force me to ' _show initiative_.'" She says those last two words dripping with sarcasm, raising her voice and curling up her face. Then she bursts into laughter. She has dark eyes that have always reminded me of the night sky, but when she laughs, they're brighter than the sun.

"Would I have to wash dishes?"

"No, kid, you'd be waiting tables with yours truly." She points at herself, grinning with childish excitement and a little bit of malice. "Seriously, dude. You have the job if you want it. You'd get free ice cream. And a pick of the cutest waitresses. God knows, they'll all be drooling over you."

Suddenly, I can feel my face getting hot. I'm uncomfortable by this particular subject for reasons I'm not even completely aware of. It's not that Charlotte and I don't talk about relationships or who we find attractive. We do. It's just, it feels weird. It's almost like I can't be completely honest with Charlotte, but I don't know why.

I don't want to tell her I don't find girls that attractive.

I don't want to tell her I had a crush on her ex-boyfriend last spring. God, I couldn't imagine her reaction.

I don't want to tell her I used to fantasize about the same celebrities she used to fantasize about as a kid. Justin Timberlake. Johnny Depp. Jude Law. Draco (don't judge me).

I just don't want things to be different between us. We have something really good, really healthy, something we both seem to need. I don't want to scare her away. Who knows, maybe I'm not actually into guys.

Suddenly, the doors of the restaurant swing open, and Charlotte's dad, Pat, strides in. He's followed in by some guy in a hood. I hardly notice.

Pat Hutchinson is massive. He's easily 6'5, with biceps the size of logs, even though he's got the insides of a teddy bear. He's always been nice to me, treating me like the son he's never had. He and Charlotte share their black hair and dark eyes, but that's where their resemblance stops. Where Pat has strong, angular features, his daughter is all curves and soft bone structure. I'd say she must look like her mother, but I've never met her. Supposedly, she died when Charlotte was only six.

Pat grins at me and comes over to where we're sitting.

"What are you two doing?" he asks.

"Nothing. I just offered this loser a job." Charlotte answers.

"Oh, did you now?" He smiles at his daughter, his thick eyebrows dancing playfully. He turns to me. "Well, it's about time you got paid for all the time you spend around here, kid. You'll let me know if you have any issues, right?"

"I'll try." I laugh.

"But there's nothing really to worry about. Charlotte isn't _the worst_ to work with." He winks at me. "But she can be a little loud."

"Dad!" Charlotte yells, punching him in the arm.

He coughs. "My point exactly." His dark eyes twinkle at his daughter.

I've always loved their relationship. I've always envied it. I try not to think about my own father, about the way he talked to me, about the last time one of us had hit the other.

"So, who's this?" Charlotte asks, gesturing toward the hooded boy, who has been hovering behind Pat this whole time. I've hardly noticed.

Pat gives Charlotte a weird look, almost cautious, as if she shouldn't have mentioned the obviously looming figure in this room, for reasons I'm not aware of.

That's when the boy takes off his hood, and I see him. He's strange looking, but in a way that tugs at something inside me. He's pasty, skinny, and he seems unreasonably tired. His short, pale-colored hair is wild, his eyes tinted red, and his teeth are crooked, but there's something about him that fascinates me. Maybe it's the way his eyes bounce around, as if he can't look at one thing for very long, or how his hands shake, just a little, as if he's nervous. Why would he be nervous?

I realize quickly that I want to talk to him. I want to find out who he is. I want to know who he is, why he's here, where he came from, and what he thinks. I want to speak, and my heart is beating violently in my chest. I open my mouth and am about to turn my thoughts into words.

But Pat steps in front of me, blocking this boy from my view, and I feel blood returning to my head. I'm thinking rationally again. I refrain from speaking. In fact, I've forgotten what I wanted to say.

 _What the hell was that?_

"This is Dante." Pat says, matter-of-factly. "He's going to be helping me around the resort. Working on the docks, doing some boat repair, maybe fix up the old shed. Boring stuff, really. We'll see you around."

Pat turns around and ushers this Dante kid back to the front door, more hurriedly than they'd entered.

"That was weird," Charlotte admits, seemingly reading my thoughts. I hope to god that she can't actually read my thoughts.

Because, if she knows what my heart felt like when Pat stepped out of the way and I could see that boy again, I don't know if she'd want to be my friend anymore.

What is wrong with me?


End file.
